


Out of Orbit

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson is strangely intrigued by Mycroft's power and intelligence.  When he finds himself staying with the man temporarily, his feelings begin to grow into something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When he and Watson first met, Holmes reflected, Watson had been astounded by his insight, stunned by his intelligence.

This was very much the same; and yet, entirely different.

They had met Mycroft over dinner to discuss a case he was working on. Generally, he avoided involving Mycroft in his affairs unless he absolutely had to, preferring to solve cases through his own powers. However, if involving his brother would bring that glow to his companion's eyes more often, well, perhaps his own ego could take a blow or two. He took a sip of his drink to cover his smile as Watson leaned forward eagerly in his seat, eyes wide, listening to Mycroft explain how he'd discovered their perpetrator's government connection.

The conversation was illuminating, to say the least; what was left unsaid even moreso.

"That's amazing," Watson said, slightly reverently. Mycroft shrugged and leaned back in his seat, but Holmes could see he was secretly pleased with Watson's praise.

"It was nothing," he said dismissively.

"Nothing?" Watson exclaimed. "That was magnificent! Who else would have thought - ? I mean," he added hastily, turning to Holmes with a hand over his mouth. Holmes waved him off.

"I will freely give credit where it's due, my dear Watson," he said with a smile. "It seems my brother has bested me yet again."

Watson flushed, but looked back at Mycroft with a positively adoring look. "It really was amazing," he said again. Mycroft couldn't keep from smiling, that time.

Mycroft continued to explain the situation to Watson, even venturing to explain work Holmes had done, but the way Watson was hanging on his every word, Holmes found he couldn't bring himself to mind. Mycroft shifted forward to hand Watson the paperwork he'd discovered that lead to the man's discovery. He'd have been able to pass it while reclined in his seat, Holmes noted, but since he'd leaned forward their fingers brushed lightly as Watson accepted it. Watson flushed slightly and looked away a second later than he would have normally.

As they walked out of the restaurant, Holmes turned the facts over in his mind once more. _His_ brother. And _his_ doctor. He found he liked the sound of that.

"We should dine with Mycroft more often," Holmes commented. Watson's cheeks were just a shade darker than usual when he agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson awoke several days later to Holmes standing at the foot of his bed. He sat up, rubbing his eyes groggily.

"Holmes? What's wrong? Is it a case?" Holmes' eyes were shining in that peculiar way that Watson recognized all too well. Like there was a puzzle laid out before him; he rubbed his hands together as though eager to assemble the pieces.

"Indeed. Pack a bag, my dear fellow; a fortnight should do."

Watson scrambled out of bed and reached for his bag. "Where will we be going?" he asked.

"_You_ will be going," Holmes corrected him. Watson turned to look at his friend. "I will be conducting highly sensitive business, and unfortunately plans have altered somewhat and I must do so here," Holmes explained. "I have already requested Mrs. Hudson take a holiday, and now I am extending the same 'request' to you."

"If it's important, I cannot possibly leave you," Watson protested. Holmes smiled fondly at him.

"Ah, but your presence here will only hinder my progress. No, instead I believe I have found an ideal solution for both of us."

"What's that?" Watson said warily.

"You will stay with my brother Mycroft until this is resolved."

"How does that benefit both of us?" Watson said a little too quickly.

"I won't be forcing you into a hotel, for one thing; and you'll still be near enough to assist me, should the situation require it. What do you say?"

Watson stilled, suddenly nervous. Mycroft was amazing, fascinating to listen to, but he was also very intimidating. Watson was sure Mycroft wouldn't want to spend two weeks with his brother's slightly dim-witted companion. Usually he didn't think so lowly of his own intelligence, but compared to the Holmeses, surely he was positively moronic? "Are you sure that's alright? Mycroft doesn't seem the type to entertain guests," he said finally.

"Indeed, he is not. However, I already have a telegram here agreeing to my request. He seems quite amiable to the idea, actually."

"Does he?" Watson said, surprised. His heart leapt, and he couldn't hide his slight smile.

"Yes. It's quite odd. Is this agreeable for you?" Watson flushed deeply, but nodded.

"Of course. If you've considered everything," he added hurriedly.

"Indeed I have," Holmes said with a smile. "Now, if you will resume packing; my 'guests' will be arriving within the hour. And they are _jealously_ guarding their identities, I'm afraid."

Watson bustled out the door forty five minutes later, Holmes at his heels shooing anxiously. He barely had time to say good bye before the door was slammed in his face. Shrugging, he called a cab and headed for Mycroft's Pall Mall home.

"Dr. Watson!" Mycroft's voice boomed through the entrance way as he was retrieving his bags from the cab. "I'm pleased to see you."

Watson reached politely to shake his hand. "Mr. Holmes, it's wonderful to see you again," he said with a smile.

"My brother informs me his business will take a fortnight to complete. It is fortunate, then, that I had tentative plans to spend a week at my country home." Watson's heart sank. Of course, why else would Mycroft agree to this arrangement. Mentally he kicked himself for hoping for something else. "I must ensure my work is lined up, of course, but I was rather hoping you'd join me." Mycroft reached for Watson's bags and led his way down the hall.

"You want me to come with you?" Watson repeated dumbly. _Witty,_ he thought, wincing.

"Unless you're adverse to leaving London, for some reason?" Mycroft asked over his shoulder.

"No, no," Watson said hastily. "Not at all." He smiled to himself.

"Splendid," Mycroft pushed open a door and lead the way inside. "I must finish my arrangements with my collegues. I'll be free in a few days."

Watson looked around the guest room in satisfaction. It was in no way overstated; but rather, it seemed to radiate comfort from every angle in a way he'd come to expect from Holmes; and now apparently Mycroft as well. "I do hope the room is to your liking," Mycroft said. Watson beamed at him.

"It is indeed," he assured him.

"Good. I took the liberty of instructing the cook to prepare a simple curry for the evening, I hope that is to your liking?"

Watson flashed him a grin. "I love it, actually; Mrs. Hudson doesn't prepare it as often as I would like. Holmes complains," he explained with a laugh. "How on earth did you know?"

"Now, now," Mycroft lead him from the room, "a logician never reveals his secrets," he joked.

Watson snorted. "Tell that to your brother," he said.

"Sherlock still has a lot to learn," Mycroft said wisely; a thrill ran through him, and he turned away with an embarrassed cough. Mycroft lead him through the halls, pointing out various rooms. He hovered briefly in the doorway of the study which adjoined his bedroom before leading Watson to the dining hall.

They ate in silence for several minutes. Watson briefly entertained the notion of leaving Mycroft in peace for most of the trip, but he was already bursting to hear more of the man's brilliant work. He was just pondering the best way to ask when Mycroft wiped his mouth with a napkin and began, "Has Sherlock ever told you of the Earl Bennett case? It was one of his earliest, and required my assistance."

Watson's face split in a wide grin and he shook his head, resting an elbow on the table as he sat forward eagerly, his entire body tingling faintly in excitement. Mycroft smiled at him and happily launched into the tale. The moment he finished, Watson gave up all pretense and immediately requested another. He was so engrossed he barely noticed how much he sounded like a child requesting a bed time story, and Mycroft didn't mention it. Instead he thought for only a moment before beginning another tale. It was nearly dark before they realized, and they reluctantly parted ways.

Watson settled into his room that evening and immediately sat down to write a letter to Holmes. It was quite ridiculous to miss his best friend when they were merely on different streets in London, but he couldn't keep himself from drifting over to the small desk and lifting a sheet of the fine quality paper there. He looked over the writing supplies spread over the desk. They were all the finest quality, and brand new. He smiled. Everyone knew of his love of writing; that Mycroft had gone out of his way to arrange this touched him deeply. He shook himself from his thoughts, blushing, and turned to write his letter.

_My Dear Holmes,_

I have arrived at your brother's home. Everything is tasteful yet has a muted quality, and I think I will find the soothing atmosphere quite conducive to writing up a few of our latest adventures. Mycroft mentioned this afternoon, however, that he may wish to spend a week at his country home. I will send you a telegram if our plans change. I realize you are busy, but I do hope you'll be able to keep me abreast of the case, and assure me of your safety. Please remember to eat, and at least attempt not to try your client's patience too much.

Yours faithfully,

Watson

He sealed the letter and rang for it to be sent out at once. He sat back down, pulling out his notes and tapping his pen against his lip as he tried to imagine the best place to start this particular tale. His mind kept wandering, however, to Holmes' mysterious case, Mycroft's serene household, and their pleasant dinner conversation. Finally, he gave up, sat his pen down with a sigh and turned toward the bed.

The next morning the maid informed him that Mycroft would be in and out of meetings all day. Watson tried to hide his disappointment, but suspected he did a bad job of it, since she launched into a litany of suggestions to pass the time. He smiled gratefully, but instead chose to pass the time writing. Hours later he sat at the desk, sheets of paper strewn in front of him, looking over his attempts to write up their latest case.

_ discovered by none other than my friend's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft is a brilliant man, one of the   
Mycroft commanded respect, yet wielded his power not with arrogance but   
Holmes' brother possess a wealth of knowledge _

Blushing, he crumpled the papers and threw them in the trash with a sigh. He could only imagine the things Holmes would say if he attempted to publish such blatant sentiments of admiration - never mind if Mycroft actually _read_ then. His ears burned at the thought. He lifted his pen again, but ended up simply staring at the blank sheets in front of him, until he was surprised by the maid with a letter from Holmes. He thanked her, then walked over to the bed and and laid back to read, smiling fondly.

_My Dear Watson,_

I am pleased you find my brother's lodgings suitable. Post is exceedingly quick while you are within the city; I'm afraid it will not be once you begin travel. However, since you will still be available via telegram should I need your assistance, I see no problems with this development. Mycroft's country home is indeed a rather large, private affair - perhaps a little too isolated for your liking. However the grounds are inspiring; please, try not to let it infect your writing of our tales.

I cannot inform you of details of the case, I'm sure you understand, but I can assure you everything appears to be going as planned. We are still in a conception phase; I will need more data to draw firm conclusions.

In the meantime, do keep writing, old boy.

Holmes

Watson folded the letter with a smile. Holmes' company must be exceedingly dull, for him not only to reply so quickly to discuss practically nothing at all, but also to request more of what he would usually call Watson's banal observations. He imagined Baker Street crammed with stuffy, self-important types and shook his head in sympathy. Suddenly, he heard voices raised somewhere in the house. He slipped off the bed and padded out into the hall, curious. The voices were coming from the study at the end of the hall; he took a few hesitant steps toward it.

"No," a man was saying forcefully, "We _cannot_ go ahead now!"

"There's nothing else -"

"Just because he decided at the last minute to go on a _vacation_ does NOT mean -"

There was a soft click as the adjoining door closed. "Gentlemen," came Mycroft's soft voice.

He shivered at the sliver of pleasure that shot through him at the tone. He spoke softly, yet with a quiet authority that stilled the room. Watson gripped the door frame and leaned closer, holding his breath as he tried to catch every word. Dimly, he was aware of the hum of excitement thrumming through his veins as he listened to Mycroft smoothly delivering orders to the men.

"We will go ahead as planned," Mycroft finished. "You are dismissed."

Footsteps snapped him back to himself. Shame rushed through him as he crept away from the door. Mycroft had accepted him into his home, and _this_ was how he repaid him? Skulking in doorways, listening to private conversations? He slipped into his own room and sat on the bed, trying to calm his racing heart. Mycroft deserved his privacy as much as anyone, he chided himself. And admiration could only be stretched so far.

A soft knocking on the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Dr. Watson," Mycroft greeted. Watson stood quickly and invited him into the room.

"Mr. Holmes," he nodded as Mycroft stepped inside.

"As I'm sure you heard - " Watson flushed guiltily, "- my associates and I have just finished making arrangements. I admit, I'm quite looking forward to this myself - it's been quite a while since I spent some time in the country. Servants keep the grounds well-tended, and it is, some would say, quite beautiful."

"Yes, Holmes mentioned it in his letter," Watson said with a smile. Though he knew it wasn't a likely possibility, he couldn't suppress the happiness blooming in his chest at the idea that Mycroft might want to spend time with him.

"Then, will you be ready to depart in two days' time?" Mycroft's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Of course," Watson agreed readily. "I've already informed your brother of the possibility, he agreed it will be... good for my writing," Watson said with a smirk. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. "I'll write again to inform him of the date, so he'll know where to send any messages."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Mycroft said quickly. Wason nodded at him as he left the room, trying not to be too disappointed. _Mycroft is a very busy man,_ he reminded himself as he sat and lifted the pen.

_My Dear Holmes,_

We will be departing in two days, Mycroft informs me. I admit I'm looking forward to the change in scenery and the chance to explore the grounds. Mycroft tells me as well that it should be an enjoyable experience.

Speaking of Mycroft, I am considering omitting his involvement from the record of our most recent adventure. For security reasons. I will send you a draft once it's completed, which should be in a few days' time. I do hope your case is going well, and you don't find your company too disagreeable.

Yours,

Watson

\-----

_My Dear Watson,_

The company is boring, pretentious and stuffy. Exactly what you'd expect from bureaucratic fools.

I have always found Mycroft's country home to have a soothing atmosphere, particularly at sunset. You are the writer, not I, I'm afraid; so I must leave you to describe it in your own terms once you have seen it with your own eyes. I await your florid prose with much trepidation.

Holmes

Watson rolled his eyes and shoved the letter into his bag, grinning as he imagined regaling Holmes with the most ridiculous descriptions he could imagine. He was still smirking as he looked around the room Mycroft had provided for him; it was simply decorated, obviously a bachelor's home; Watson chuckled to himself as he tried to imagine Mycroft's quarters with a woman's touch. The idea struck him as quite absurd.

Through the window he could see the back garden; a small stream passed through, a gently arching bridge over it. It was beautiful, he had to agree. The sun was nearly setting; remembering Holmes' words, he hurried to pack away his things. A light knock came on the door just as he finished putting his clothing away, and he turned with a smile to see Mycroft standing there.

"Doctor, are you settled in?" Mycroft entered and took a seat at the desk. Watson noted it was covered in fresh writing utensils as well; Mycroft must have sent a message ahead. He colored at the thought.

"Yes, just about. Mr. Holmes," he began, shifting his weight nervously, "I was wondering if you would care to join me for a walk on the grounds?" he asked timidly. Mycroft looked surprised.

"Of course," he said, flashing a quick smile. Watson quickly finished putting away his things and shoved the bag in the closet, indicating his readiness. Mycroft stood and lead the way outside. "I'm afraid I'll have to return to Pall Mall for a short visit in a few days, unfortunately," he said over his shoulder.

"Oh? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes," Mycroft waved off his concern. "My associates require my assistance, that is all." He pulled open the door and stepped aside to let Watson through first. He stepped out into the dying sunlight and stopped. Everything was so beautiful; his eyes darted around, unsure where to look first.

"This was our parent's estate," Mycroft said next to him as he closed the door. "Sherlock and I grew up here; we would spend every summer playing in these gardens, and at the local village. The vendors were quite charming."

Watson was watching him curiously, but Mycroft was looking over the grounds with a far off look in his eye. "Perhaps we could take a trip into town, while we're here," Watson suggested. Mycroft turned and smiled at him warmly; Watson felt his heart swell.

Mycroft took his arm and led him to the flowers planted to the right. The sun was just dipping below the trees, giving everything a soft, magical glow. "Chrysanthemums," he said. Watson reached out to touch the soft red petals. Mycroft launched into a description of the origin of the plant; Watson leaned closer, letting his eyes drift closed, Mycroft's voice soothing him. Watson blinked his eyes and shook himself slightly as Mycroft stopped gesturing and rested his hand on top of Watson's that was still threaded through his other arm.

"That's amazing," Watson said honestly. "How do you know so much about them?"

"I make it a point to learn everything about the things I surround myself with," Mycroft said, looking down at him. Watson blushed and looked away, smiling softly.

"They're so beautiful," he murmured. "They're a symbol of 'optimism and joy', if memory serves me. My mother used to arrange large bouquets of them all around our house in the spring. She'd drag us to the fields to pick armfuls, so when the wind would blow the whole house smelled like an orchard," he laughed, caught up in the joyful memory. "I haven't thought about that in years," he mused.

He pulled himself from his thoughts and turned to see Mycroft gazing down at him, eyes dark with some unreadable emotion. He flushed, realizing how silly he must have sounded, and opened his mouth to excuse himself. Just then, however, Mycroft cleared his throat and tugged him toward another small patch of plants, patting his hand absently.

"These are Asters," he began. Watson tightened his hold on Mycroft's arm as he listened, unconsciously pressing closer to the warmth at his side, a strange contentment rushing through him. For an absurd moment he was overcome with the urge to lean his head on the man's shoulder as they walked slowly; he even started to tilt his head before he realized with a start what he was doing. He leaned back, flushing - surely, he was just getting tired. He looked up, determined to focus on what Mycroft was saying. At that moment, though, Mycroft looked down at him and smiled fondly; a soft, gentle look that swept over his features, sending Watson's pulse racing and heat pooling in his groin. A jolt of fear and disbelief shot through him an instant later, and he looked away quickly.

"I really must get back inside," he gasped, jerking his arm away. "It's getting late, and I still intend to write to your brother."

Mycroft looked surprised and somewhat displeased. "Of course," he said finally. Watson excused himself and nearly ran back to his room.

Confusion overtook him as he hurried down the hall, flushing deeply and trying to work out how he'd gone from admiring his friend's brother to - whatever that had been. He closed the door to his room behind him and locked it for good measure. He sat on the bed hard, taking deep breaths and forcing himself to relax, trying to calm the thoughts racing around in his mind.

It's illegal. It's wrong. It's his best friend's _brother_. If the fear of a prison sentence wasn't enough to deter him, surely fear of losing his dearest friend was.

He took another deep breath. He was getting ahead of himself. The law was clearly about men's _actions_, after all, and there was no reason to think Mycroft would even entertain the notion to begin with. _And that's a good thing,_ he told himself firmly. He enjoyed Mycroft's company; that was all. He was simply confused.

To distract himself, he crossed to his desk and picked up his pen once more. He tried several times to start the letter before he was able to focus enough to write something coherent that wouldn't raise his friend's suspicions.

_My Dear Holmes,_

I will refrain from giving you my opinion of the grounds; suffice to say, we passed an enjoyable evening. You didn't mention how the case was progressing in your last letter; should I assume all is well? Your client-turned-flatmate isn't hovering on the brink of homicide, I trust?

Mycroft has mentioned the nearby village has a quaint shopping district. I believe I will visit in a few days to pass the time while he returns to the city for business. I hope you are enjoying your work as much as I am enjoying my holiday, my dear fellow.

Yours,

Watson

He re-read the letter twice with a careful eye before he was content that even Holmes could not puzzle out what had happened. He folded it carefully with a sigh, his head aching, wishing that _he_, at least, could.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Watson begged off any activities, telling Mycroft he really needed to get some writing done. Mycroft had shrugged, looking disappointed, and left him to his work. Watson smiled sadly when he realized that a mere day ago he would have been touched that Mycroft wanted his company, but now, it brought butterflies to his stomach and left him pacing the room nervously. Finally, he threw himself into writing their last case with determination, merely skipping Mycroft's contribution for the time being. The post arrived that afternoon without a letter from Holmes. Watson pushed it from his mind; Holmes was surely too busy to continue writing him everyday, as the case became more time consuming.

That evening, he picked at his dinner, making polite but reserved conversation. Mycroft, for his part, allowed them to lapse into silence for the remainder of the meal, muttering instructions to the maid as she cleared the dishes.

"Doctor," he began as he stood, "Would you care to accompany me on the grounds once more?"

Watson smiled, suddenly feeling guilty for neglecting their conversation. "Of course, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft took his arm and Watson started slightly. He forced himself to relax, telling himself his reaction last time was an anomaly - a result of whatever confusion had overcome him - and willing his heart to return to it's usual tempo. Mycroft led them outside for a stroll in the garden once more; Watson did his best to focus his attention on the grounds and tried very studiously to _not_ notice the way Mycroft's arm brushed against his side with each step or the way his lips quirked up as he talked in a low tone. This time, Watson was guided to the far corner of the yard where a chess board sat on one of the low tables, surrounded by bushes.

"I don't know how to play," Watson confessed sheepishly. Mycroft maneuvered him into a chair and sat across from him. He lifted each piece in turn, explaining what they were called and how they moved - and precisely _how_ each one earned their name, and debated their historical accuracy with himself - and Watson's mind began to wander, watching Mycroft fiddle with the pieces and letting his words wash over him as easy as waves on sand. He was startled from his reverie when Mycroft proposed a game.

"Excuse me?"

"Would you care to play?" Mycroft looked amused.

He blushed. "Certainly, but..." he trailed off. He couldn't call to mind how half the pieces were supposed to move, he realized, chagrined. Mycroft would think him an _idiot_ for not remembering -

"I'll help you," Mycroft assured him. "Most people don't get it on the first time through," he added.

"I'll bet _you_ did," Watson said with a smile. "You're not most people." Mycroft smiled at his undisguised admiration.

Watson relaxed somewhat as they moved their first pieces. When it was his turn again, he gripped the - knight? - and went to move. Suddenly, Mycroft's hand covered his own, gripping his wrist softly. He sucked in a breath, startled.

"That piece can only move here -" he gently tugged Watson's hand, fingers brushing over his palm lightly, "- here -" Watson's mouth went dry as Mycroft flicked his thumb idly across his pulse point, "- or here." He released Watson's hand and pulled back. Watson fought against the rush of disappointment that went through him. He moved to the last position Mycroft had shown him, not really seeing the board, forgetting momentarily he'd been trying to _avoid_ this.

"There?" he breathed. He looked up at Mycroft, who was watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. Another rush of heat went through him, and he smiled nervously. Mycroft looked away after a moment and the game continued.

In the end, he lost spectacularly, but the soft way Mycroft laughed each time he explained a foolish move he was about to make, or took his hand to guide him more than compensated for the embarrassment, in his mind. He reluctantly excused himself just as the sun was setting. He hesitated in front of the desk, realizing he'd forgotten to write to Holmes earlier. With a shrug he turned away, changed his clothes and collapsed on the bed. He was asleep in minutes.

\-----

Watson was waking slowly, half awake and still half dreaming. Ghosts of lips and hands moved over him as he shifted in the bed, pressing his hips forward against phantom contact, dreaming of piercing eyes and a strong, commanding voice. Unaware, he shifted a hand to grip himself through his pants; hearing that voice whispering in his ear, feeding him filthy commands that made his cock twitch as he eagerly complied. He licked his lips unconsciously as he began to stroke himself harder, rough fabric sliding over sensitive skin and making him jerk his hips. Just as his phantom lover ordered him to take him in his mouth, Watson jerked awake with a gasp, lost in sensation for a moment. He bit his lip to keep from crying out in surprise and pleasure. Chest heaving, he lifted the blanket and stared at the wet patch spreading over the front of his dressing gown.

"That's... certainly not confusion," he muttered to himself. He threw back the blanket and peeled off the soiled garments, wrinkling his nose as he wiped himself clean and re-dressed, shame flooding through him. He laid back down, eyes focused out the window, resolved to simply wait for the sun to rise, afraid to fall back asleep.

When morning finally came Watson requested breakfast to be sent to his room, unable to face Mycroft. He didn't know what this _was,_ what it _meant,_ and he certainly didn't want to watch Mycroft read it in every inch of his face before he figured it out for himself.

It was well into the afternoon before Watson realized Holmes hadn't written again. He sat at his desk and pulled out the letters he had sent earlier, looking over them idly. Holmes would be able to explain to him what it all meant, he reflected. Holmes had no first hand experience that Watson knew of, but he always had advice to give, if it was needed. If only he _could_ ask Holmes for advice. He buried his face in his hands and groaned.

"I'm certain my brother is simply busy," Mycroft said. Watson jerked up to see him lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. Watson glanced between him and the now open door, trying to figure out how he managed to get so far in the room without Watson noticing, repeatedly getting distracted by the sight of _Mycroft_ on his _bed_. He flushed and looked down at the letters.

"I know. I just wish he'd keep me informed, as best as he's able to." He sighed. "Perhaps I worry too much," he admitted with a smile. Mycroft eyed him for a moment, expression stony. Panic rushed through him, threatening to overcome him as Mycroft examined him like a bug under a microscope. He stood quickly, his chair scrapping on the ground.

"Excuse me," he said tightly; he dashed from the room before Mycroft could reply. He couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed when Mycroft didn't follow. He paced the grounds, nervous energy coursing through him as he tried to figure out what to do; nothing came to him, and finally the maid found him and he went to dinner reluctantly. They ate in awkward silence.

After dinner, Mycroft brought a small bag from his study, Watson watching him from the doorway of his own room. He crossed to the door with luggage in hand, Watson trailing behind him. Mycroft turned to him in the doorway, reaching to shake his hand. "I'll have someone check up on Sherlock, to ease both our minds. Alright?" Watson nodded, a torrent of worries and fears swirling in his head that had little to do with Holmes. He couldn't resist touching Mycroft's arm briefly; then, he was gone.

Watson tried to come up with an explanation, _any_ explanation besides the obvious for what was happening to him. He was afraid to sleep again that night; yet at the same time, images from the dream flashed through his mind, clear enough they could have been real. He couldn't tell if he felt ashamed, distracted or intrigued. He finally managed a fitful nap on the couch just as the sun was rising.

The maid woke him shortly after nine o'clock, telegram in hand. He stared at it for a moment uncomprehending, a sick feeling of fear curling in his abdomen. Then he threw the paper to the floor with a curse and dashed out the door, the words echoing in his head.

_At St. Bart's. Come quickly._


	4. Chapter 4

"You were _stabbed?!_" Watson shouted. The nurses inched away.

Holmes shot Mycroft a long-suffering look. "I _told_ you not to tell him," he admonished. Mycroft shrugged from where he was sitting next to the bed, popping another hard candy into his mouth and watching idly. "You can rest assured it was our criminal, my dear fellow, and not a client," Holmes said to him.

"You were stabbed," Watson repeated, "and you didn't think to contact me? Me, your _doctor_? What were you thinking, Holmes?" He paced the room for a moment, the brothers watching him silently. The door closed behind him as the nurses took the opportunity to flee the room.

Watson glared between the brothers. He knew between the two of them anything he might wish to say was already well known, but that didn't stop his lips from moving. "How long did you wait?" Watson demanded. Holmes looked away guiltily.

"I tried to stop the bleeding myself," he said finally. "After a half hour, however, I began to re-think my course of action. I came immediately to St. Bart's, then," he said gently.

"A half hour!" Watson cried, aghast. "Holmes, _think_ of what could have happened to you. You could have died!" Holmes opened his mouth. "Don't you dare send me away again," Watson warned. Holmes' lips twisted in annoyance. "If you think I will happily just leave our home again -" Holmes shot Mycroft an exasperated look. Mycroft rose, clearly intending to escort him from the room. He slammed his fist down on the tray on the table, causing them both to jump and focus on him once more, "- you are _damn well_ mistaken!"

"Watson, your presence at Baker Street -"

"Might have prevented your stay here! Damn it Holmes, I am. Not. Leaving," he growled. He suddenly rounded on Mycroft, who took a surprised step back in the face of his anger. From the corner of his eye he saw Holmes smirk slightly, but he ignored it. "And _you!_ 'Come quickly.' What were you _thinking?!_ I thought he was _dying_, or _missing a limb_, or - "

"I'm sorry."

He said it softly, but as usual, it seemed to override every sound in the room. Watson stopped, so disoriented that for a moment he merely gaped at Mycroft. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably and looked away, looking just as surprised by his own words as Watson was. He looked so contrite in that instant that Watson had to curl his fingers to keep from reaching out to touch his shoulders, his hair, heart aching. Guilt surfaced through the anger; Mycroft was obviously concerned about his brother, and here he was, shouting at him.

"I'm sorry as well." He started and spun back to look at Holmes. Holmes, who he noted for the first time, looked thin and sickly, his lithe form appearing whithered in his over-large hospital bed. His anger faded quickly, knees going weak as the events of the past few days suddenly overwhelmed him. His feet moved toward the bed of their own accord; ignoring Holmes' curious expression and his own bad leg, Watson climbed up to kneel on the bed next to him, knees bumping against Holmes' hip, curling over to rest his forehead over his friend's heart. He closed his eyes and felt the organ beating, soothing the erratic beating of his own heart. A moment later, he felt Holmes rest a hand on the back of his head just as one of Mycroft's larger ones began to rub soothing circles on his lower back. Tears welled up in his eyes; he made a soft sound as he tried to choke them back, ashamed, but they pooled on Holmes' shirt and soaked through. Mycroft's hand pulled away and a second later the door clicked shut quietly. Several minutes passed before he sat up, not bothering to leave the bed. Holmes handed him a hankerchief, which he accepted gratefully. After he'd wiped his face and got his breathing under control he began twisting the cloth in his hands nervously.

"I can't go back," he confessed quietly. Holmes opened his mouth to speak. "Please don't ask why," Watson said quickly. "_Please._"

"Watson," Holmes said gently, "I cannot lose this case. It is far too important, especially now," Watson's gaze drifted down to the lump of bandages on his friend's side. Holmes reached out to grip his hand. "I'm sorry," he said. Watson wasn't sure how long they sat that way, silent; eventually the door opened and Mycroft slipped back inside. Holmes dropped his hand quickly, and Watson, embarrassed, wiped his eyes once more. As he climbed down from the bed a wave of dizziness overcame him; Mycroft rushed forward and slid an arm around his waist to support him. Watson gripped his shirt, closing his eyes as the room swam in front of him.

"When was the last time you ate?" Mycroft asked.

Watson opened his eyes. Mycroft's face was hoving inches from his own; he felt another wave of dizziness even as he tried to pull away, breath catching in his throat. Mycroft gripped him tighter, and he bit his tongue to keep from whimpering. He looked at Holmes desperately, but he was merely watching, concern and something soft he couldn't identify clouding his features.

"Last night, at dinner," he answered finally. He tried desperately to focus on anything but the proximity of Mycroft's lips to his own. Unconsciously he darted his tongue out to run over his lower lip; the movement drew Mycroft's gaze and for a moment, they both stood completely still.

"You picked at the salad, then excused yourself. I'd hardly call that eating," Mycroft admonished him finally. Watson flushed, nerves flooding him as he realized Mycroft's proximity was having a certain alarming effect on him. If Mycroft tugged him any closer, he was going to know _exactly_ why he hadn't been eating lately. He tried to lean back farther, panic threatening to overtake him.

"I hardly think the doctor is physically capable of what _you_ call eating, brother," Holmes quipped from the bed. Mycroft loosened his hold somewhat, the tension between them diminishing. Watson breathed a small sigh of relief as Mycroft's lips quirked in amusement and he shot his brother an exasperated look.

Watson tried to gently ease himself from Mycroft's hold, but the movement drew his attention once more. "You skipped lunch yesterday as well," he chided.

"Why don't the two of you go to dinner, then?" Holmes suggested.

"We can't both leave," Watson protested, heart pounding. He finally managed to slip from Mycroft's grasp. "Why don't you stay here, and I'll go?" he hurried toward the door. He heard the brothers murmuring to each other, but he pulled the door shut behind him and hurried away.

He didn't slow until he was outside of the hospital, looking up and down the street. He ducked into a small restaurant, hardly noticing when he was led to a table and ordering the first thing he saw on the menu. He couldn't force Holmes to give up this case, he realized as he ate. Whatever it was, it was obviously too important to his friend throw away over his overprotectiveness and cowardice. He would have to deal with his problems on his own. Sighing, he paid for his meal and walked back to the hospital.

Determined, he pushed open the door and strode in. Both Holmeses focused on him immediately. Watson fixed Holmes with a hard stare; for a long moment, the room was silent. "Watson," Holmes began.

"No," Watson cut him off firmly. Holmes looked surprised. "I cannot keep you from this case, I know. It is not my place to decide what cases you can and cannot take, nor would I wish it to be." Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Watson ignored him, "You will write to me every day, understand?" He went on, voice growing harder with each word. "I don't care what you talk about; tell me about the weather, if it suits you. If you miss a _single day,_ I will be at our door before nightfall, secrecy be damned. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Holmes said, looking slightly dazed. Watson turned quickly and walked toward the door, stopping briefly next to Mycroft.

"I will see you in a few days," he said resolutely. Then he was gone.

\-----

Watson stood in the entrance way, an odd mixture of emotions swirling through him. He felt guilty for leaving Holmes so soon, though he knew Holmes wanted it this way; angry at himself for losing control of himself so frequently lately.

He shook himself. He'd come back early to figure out his emotions, he reminded himself. He crossed to his room and locked the door behind him. He tossed his luggage on the floor and laid back on the bed, mind wandering.

He had feelings for Mycroft. It wasn't that hard to admit, he told himself. Somehow, he'd developed a sexual attraction to him. Some part of him wanted to balk at that, but images from his dream swirled in his mind. It was the truth - he was attracted to a man.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it might feel like to kiss another man. Rougher, he imagined, not like the soft, gentle kisses the women he'd been with had seemed to prefer. He thought of being held by arms stronger than his own; not having to worry about the delicacy of his partner. He shivered slightly and bit his lip. He'd never been a particularly rough lover, but he'd never been able to shake the feeling that something was missing. He wondered suddenly what it would feel like to have a man take him, but the only thing he could think of was learning how to do rectal exams in school. He winced, shaking his head.

He imagined Mycroft leaning over him, imagined the things he might say, when in the right situation.

He sucked in a sharp breath as a bolt of pleasure shot straight to his groin. He tried to keep his hands away, tried to work this out rationally, but as his imagination fed him the image of Mycroft holding him, whispering every thing he wanted to do in his ear, he found himself fumbling with his flies, cursing. He finally freed himself and groaned aloud, stroking quickly, closing his eyes and seeing himself submissive before Mycroft, accepting anything he had to give.

He forced his pants past his knees, curious, imagination running away with him as he rolled on his side and pressed a finger against his opening experimentally. He shuddered at the sensation and pulled away long enough to fumble for his medical bag and slick his fingers. He stroked himself faster as he pressed the digit inside. He winced against the flash of pain, fear flooding through him. God, that was just one _finger?_ He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. The pressure soon faded, leaving him feeling oddly full, cock pulsing insistantly in his hand. He began to stroke himself again, eyes falling closed as he imagined a larger, rougher hand gripping him impossibly tight. He shifted the digit inside himself experimentally, gasping as pleasure shot through him. He crooked his finger and pressed, stroking faster until shudders wracked his body and he buried his face in the pillow to muffle his cries. Dimly, he was aware of pulling a cloth from his bag and wiping his fingers, then he collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted.

He felt oddly at peace as he looked out the window, though he still didn't know what to do with this information. With a sigh, he tugged the blankets over himself and drifted off to sleep.

He awoke sometime later to the maid knocking on the door. After ensuring his clothing was fastened properly, he opened the door, blushing as she looked curiously at his rumpled clothes, lunch tray in hand. She simply smiled as he stepped back to let her inside, leaving the tray on the desk and him alone once more.

He sat down at the table and noticed a letter on the edge of the tray. He grabbed it and tore it open, food temporarily forgotten.

_My Dear Watson,_

Our contact informs us that our suspect has begun to move; the details are hazy, but we are closing in at a satisfactory pace. This is especially pleasing to me, given the fact that my present company is so dreadfully boring.

The village is indeed captivating. You will find the vendors especially charming; Mycroft is rather fond of the trinkets they sell, if memory serves me. It is one of his few romantic whimsies.

Holmes

Watson re-read the letter several times, confused, before he realized it was post-marked before Holmes' injury. Smiling, he decided now would be the perfect time to walk the short distance into town and explore. It was well after dark when Watson returned, small package tucked under his arm. He sat it on the desk, wondering as he dressed for bed if Mycroft would like it.

Shortly after Watson awoke the next morning, a telegram arrived for him. It detailed the rain and fog of London in as many words as the form could hold, sender identified merely as "H." He folded it over and chuckled to himself, tucking it among the letters his friend had sent. He felt a pang of fear as he ran his fingers over the letters, but shook it off, determined.

He crossed to the mirror and ran a hand through his hair, studying his reflection. Mycroft would be returning that evening. Sucking in a deep breath, he nodded to himself. He'd made his decision.

If he was going to fall from this precipice, he was at least going to do so purposefully.

He was seated at his desk, determined to finish his writing, when the sounds of a carriage pulling up in front of the estate jerked him from his thoughts. He moved to stand in the hallway, watching as the maid opened the door and Mycroft strode in, bag in hand. He met Watson's eye immediately and smiled at him. Watson smiled back nervously.

"It's good to see you, Mr. Holmes," he said. He took a step into the hall.

Mycroft seemed surprised. "You as well, doctor. I trust all had gone well, in my absence?"

"Yes. Rather lonely, though," Watson admitted.

"Would you care to join me in my study, then?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, thank you. Give me just a moment," he said, ducking back into his own room. He grabbed the small box and walked to the study, hovering nervously in the doorway. Mycroft turned to look at him curiously.

"What have you got, there?"

Swallowing hard, he crossed the room and handed it to Mycroft, eyes lingering on their hands. It struck him suddenly how very large Mycroft's hands were; his own looked petite in comparison, darker skin standing out vividly against Mycroft's paler tone. He dropped his hand, watching as he carefully pulled the small, hand-carved figure from the package. Mycroft curled his fingers around the trinket, and Watson found himself taken by just how _thick_ they were were. God, what was he thinking? He swallowed hard and nearly stepped back before he stopped himself. _No_, he reminded himself, _no more hiding._

Mycroft looked surprised. "Your brother mentioned how much you like them," Watson said, suddenly feeling foolish.

Mycroft turned it over in his hands carefully, eyes taking in every detail. Watson watched, fascinated, until Mycroft finally looked back up, eyes crinkling slightly as he smiled softly. Watson swallowed hard and took a tentative step closer, eyes never leaving his; Mycroft watched closely, head tilted to the side slightly as though considering. Finally, he carefully sat the trinket down on the side table. Then, almost as though in a trance, he leaned forward. Heart pounding, Watson licked his lips unconsciously just before their lips brushed together, sending shocks down his spine. He reached up to grip Mycroft's shoulders, pressing their lips together firmly. His entire body was shaking with nerves and budding arousal as he pressed forward. Mycroft broke the kiss, ghosting his lips over Watson's cheek before trailing hot kisses down his neck.

"Mr. H-Holmes..." he gasped.

That seemed to snap Mycroft from his reverie; he jerked back suddenly. Watson watched, wide-eyed, as Mycroft took a quick step back, then turned away and hurried out of the room. A second later, he heard the front door slam.

Watson sat down hard, his joy and arousal quickly morphing into pain and humiliation. He buried his face in his hands, playing the scene again and again in his mind, trying to figure out what had happened. He had managed to entice the man to commit a _crime._ God, he hadn't expected it to actually _happen_. Mycroft, a high-ranking government employee.

A flash of fear went through him. Surely, Mycroft wouldn't turn him in? Panicked, he hurried back to his room, intending to pack and be gone that evening. He paused; Holmes had yet to finish his business at home. He couldn't show up at their door, ruin Holmes' work and not even have an excuse to give for his behavior. He crossed to the table and hastily scribbled a note.

_H --- _

Need to move lodgings. Please advise.

\--- W

Once the telegram was sent, He paced the room, restless, running his hands through his hair again and again until he was certain it was sticking up at odd angles. Watson began to fear Mycroft would return before Holmes' reply. Finally, there was a tentative knock on the door. He wrenched it open and snatched the telegram, barely remembering to toss the boy a coin before he slammed the door in his face.

_W ---_

Stay where you are. All will be well.

\--- H

Watson crumpled the telegram in frustration. For the first time ever, Holmes' advice was useless to him. He thought for a moment of sending another telegram, explaining why he had to leave, but dismissed it instantly. It would be too dangerous to divulge that information through such a public channel. He tossed the telegram in the fire and resumed pacing. Even as he felt as though the walls were closing in on him, he could think of little else to do but heed Holmes' command, even as it led him that much closer to a prison sentence.

As usual.

But Holmes had no idea what he was advising him to do. An even greater fear thrilled through him then, but he could think of no where else to turn; he forced himself to sit at the desk and grab a sheet of paper. He lifted the pen and paused, considering.

_My Dear Holmes,_

I am afraid I have a confession to make, dear fellow. During the course of my stay I have

My dear man, Mycroft and I

I am falling in love with your brother

With a snarl, he crumpled the paper and dropped it in the trash, leaning forward miserably to rest his head on the desk.


	5. Chapter 5

_My Dear Watson,_

Our case has reached a critical turning point. Our contact is providing us with sparce information; nevertheless, we have every reason to believe our suspect is playing right into our hands. It will only be a matter of time now.

Holmes

Watson dropped the letter with a sigh. He knew it would hold no helpful advice, having been posted before Watson's panicked telegram. That Holmes was finally becoming engrossed with his investigation was obvious; he hadn't even made any of the semi-polite inquiries he'd made in previous letters. Perhaps that was why he was so short in his response the day before, Watson reasoned. He tried to cheer himself with the thought that the sooner Holmes finished his investigation, the sooner he'd be able to return home and hopefully forget this mess.

He curled up on the bed, thoroughly miserable.

While with every passing hour it grew less and less likely that Mycroft would return with police in tow. But it left him even more mystified as to where he could be, and more importantly, why he'd left.

He heard the door click shut softly and rushed to his feet, crossing to listen at the door. He heard Mycroft enter his bedroom; he risked cracking open his door and peering out. Mycroft's door was ajar; from this angle he could see just a bit of the room beyond. Mycroft moved in and out of his line of sight, throwing things into an overnight bag that was open on the bed. He risked pulling his own door open farther, trying to figure out what the other man was up to, when the movement caught Mycroft's eye. They both froze. Finally, Mycroft crossed and pulled his door open the rest of the way. Watson felt as though his heart was in his throat as Mycroft looked at the wall next to him.

"Doctor," Mycroft began, "I owe you an apology. I had no intention of pressing my attentions upon you. You are welcome to continue your stay here as long as you need; consider it part of my apology. If I may finish packing, I will be staying at an inn in the village for a few days. I would not have burdened you with my continued presence at all, but my Pall Mall lodgings seem to be... unusable, at the moment." He turned and walked back into his room, leaving Watson in the hall, gaping.

"What...?" He followed Mycroft into his bedroom. "What are you talking about?" Watson stepped closer tentatively, trying to piece this together in a way that made some semblance of sense. "Mr. Holmes -" he began.

"I know that you're in love with my brother," Mycroft said softly. Watson started and looked at him in disbelief. Whatever he might have been expecting, it certainly wasn't _that_. Finally Mycroft sighed. "You have written to my brother nearly every day you have been apart, even the first evening you arrived, though you had just seen him that morning. Even more surprising, in fact, is the fact that my brother replied, even before his injury." Watson began to protest, but Mycroft lifted his hand to silence him. "When your climbing into his _lap_ in the hospital, doctor, is also taken into consideration, I assure you, I've drawn my conclusion."

Watson flushed, embarrassed. He hadn't stopped to think how their actions would appear to Mycroft. It was true that he and Holmes didn't have the same boundaries other friends had, but he would never dream of their relationship being anything else.

"I also assume you prefer him... physically," Mycroft continued.

"Well, I don't," Watson said honestly. He reached to take Mycroft's hand. "It's true that I love your brother," he said softly. Mycroft started to pull away, but Watson gripped his hand firmly, "but I have never been attracted to him in the slightest. I promise you, my feelings for Holmes are as brotherly as your own."

Mycroft stayed where he was, regarding him seriously. Watson stepped forward slowly, reaching to grip Mycroft's other hand as well as he stood up on his tip toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. When Mycroft didn't pull away, he turned and brushed their lips together. Mycroft stood still, not responding. Watson released his wrists, sliding his hands up his arms and over his shoulders until his fingers were buried in his hair. Mycroft shuddered, finally wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing back against his lips. He pressed his tongue forward and Watson opened his mouth eagerly, moaning against the wet heat as Mycroft thrust into his mouth and stroked his tongue forcefully. His head was spinning with the sensations and implications of their actions. All too soon, they broke away, gasping for air. Watson blinked, for a moment unable to think about anything but the throbbing in his groin. Mycroft tugged him until they were sitting on the edge of the bed, knees pressed together. He swallowed nervously, but leaned forward, pressing their upper bodies together.

Unfortunately, his long night of pacing and worrying was rapidly catching up with him, and when he leaned his head on Mycroft's shoulder, his eyes slid closed as relief flooded him. Mycroft slid an arm around his shoulder and maneuvered him until they were laying side by side on the bed.

"Just rest, for now," he whispered in Watson's ear. Watson pressed closer, still hardly daring to believe he was here, and tilted his head up for one more kiss before he drifted off.

\-----

He shifted, waking slowly, pressing closer to the warmth at his side. He blinked awake fully a moment later, looking up to see Mycroft looking down at him, eyes soft. He realized he was half laying on the man, leg thrown over him. Blushing, he rubbed his eyes and started to pull away, but a hand on his back stopped him. He smiled and leaned forward instead, drawing him into a slow, heated kiss.

He leaned back finally and looked out the window. "What time is it?"

"Nearly dinner time," Mycroft replied. "Though, lunch is still on the table," he craned his head to look. Watson froze.

"Does that mean the maid - ?" he sat up quickly, looking panicked between the tray and the door.

The _unlocked_ door.

Mycroft sat up as well and put a hand on his shoulder. "Relax," he said firmly. Watson leaned back against him. "Grace has been with us a long time. Her mother was our parent's cook; she grew up here, with us. When she was sixteen she found herself with child - our parents helped her, and after they passed Sherlock and I set aside a portion of our inheritance to put the child through school. She wouldn't say anything to anyone."

Watson thought about that for a moment. "The baby - it wasn't -"

Mycroft laughed. "No, no. Neither Sherlock or myself were responsible. Sherlock was only twelve at the time, and I was already well aware that my interests lie elsewhere."

Watson flushed. "You've," he hesitated, "You've done this before, then?" he said in a rush. Mycroft ran a hand through his hair and tugged him closer.

"Does that bother you?"

"No," Watson said quickly. "It's just - I don't -" he looked away, cheeks burning. Mycroft gripped his chin and turned him back to look in his eyes once more. What he saw there made him tremble. Mycroft was looking down at him hungrily, eyes dark and roaming over his features. He could almost see Mycroft calculating what would best make him squirm.

"Would you like to try?" he said finally.

"I - yes," Watson said shyly. Mycroft considered him for a moment longer. Suddenly, he gripped Watson's wrists and surged forward, pinning him to the bed forcefully. Watson couldn't help the small whimper that escaped him as he eagerly spread his legs to allow Mycroft to settle between them.

He tugged against Mycroft's hold experimentally; excitement coursed through him when they didn't budge. The man had an iron grip. Their eyes met and Watson smiled. Mycroft released one of his wrists to stroke his fingers gently down his cheek. His eyes slipped closed for a moment and he lay still, overwhelmed by the tenderness in the gesture. When he opened his eyes again, Mycroft was looking down at him, a wondrous expression on his face. He leaned forward and kissed him gently, a reverent affection that nearly had him undone. Mycroft leaned back again, and stroked his hair.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked. He didn't trust himself to speak; he could do nothing but nod. Mycroft released his other wrist, and Watson groaned in frustration. Mycroft's lips quirked at that, but he merely set about unbuttoning Watson's shirt, pushing the fabric aside. Watson reached up eagerly to mirror his movements. Mycroft hesitated briefly, but Watson merely leaned up and kissed him softly as he finished his buttons and pushed his shirt off his shoulders, running his hands over the warm skin he uncovered. Watson sat up long enough for them to shrug out of their shirts and slip their pants off. For a moment they simply looked at each other hungrily, then Mycroft leaned forward and pressed him back down to the bed. Watson was so distracted by the feel of Mycroft's shockingly hot skin covering him, the hard length of his cock pulsing against Watson's hip, that for a moment he didn't realize Mycroft had gripped his wrists again. It wasn't until he raised his arms above his head to hold both of Watson's hands in one of his larger ones that he realized with a gasp he was completely pinned again. Mycroft ran his hands over Watson's chest, taking in every hitch of his breath or soft shudder. Watson finally moaned aloud when Mycroft ground against him, shafts sliding and pressing together. He spread his legs wider and arched his back, silently begging for more.

"What do you want me to do to you?" Mycroft breathed in his ear as he pinched one of his nipples. Watson whimpered and threw his head back, panting. He pulled against the hand holding him, cock twitching when it held fast. "Do you want me to fuck you?" Watson ground his hips forward, trying to convey his need. "Well?"

"Yes," he finally managed to gasp. Mycroft raised his free hand and pressed a finger against Watson's lips.

"Suck," he commanded. Watson immediately drew the digit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it eagerly. He shifted, rubbing his cock against Mycroft's, rolling his hips and flicking his tongue in concert until Mycroft pulled away suddenly. He was still for a moment, taking a deep breath, then he leaned back enough to slide his hand between them and graze his finger over Watson's opening. He moaned in encouragement, drawing his knees up. Mycroft pressed the finger inside; it was larger than his own, but he took a deep breath, adjusting easier this time. Mycroft stroked him gently, pressing at his prostate until he was writhing beneath him, trying to press down on the digit but held firmly in place.

Mycroft finally released him and encouraged him to roll over onto his hands and knees. He reached for something in the drawer by the bed as Watson whimpered, impatient. Suddenly a well-oiled hand caressed his sac; he jerked and moaned in surprise. Mycroft slid his hand lower, sliding over his shaft only once before he trailed his fingertips past his sack and over his perineum and pressing at the muscle. He slipped two fingers inside, Watson pressing back on them eagerly. Mycroft held still for a long moment; pleasure threatened to overwhelm Watson as he thrust back, writhing on Mycroft's fingers, gasping. A hand suddenly wound tightly in his hair; he stilled when it tugged sharply. The fingers left him and an instant later, he felt something much larger pressing against him. He shifted his hips and pressed back.

He held his breath as he slid himself down Mycroft's length, the slight pain only heightening his arousal. He pressed back firmly until they were fitted together, moaning as he shifted against him. He rolled his hips enthusiastically, the hand in his hair loosening enough for him to lean forward to rest his head on the bed as he gasped and writhed, arousal threatening to overcome him. Mycroft's hands moved to hold his hips in a bruising grip as he thrust faster, a hard rhythm that left Watson gasping helplessly. He couldn't last much longer; he tightened his muscles experimentally, gasping and crying out as Mycroft gave a brutal thrust and leaned forward to wrap his arms around his waist. He threw his head back on Mycroft's shoulder, stars sparking behind his eyes as he came over the sheets below him. Mycroft groaned and thrust into him once more, shivering as he poured into him.

Mycroft collapsed next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. He nuzzled his neck and muttered, "If I had thought you were going to react like _that_, I would have done this sooner."

Watson blushed, mentally replaying his wanton behavior. "I've never acted like that before," he admitted. Mycroft looked smug.

"Well, perhaps I can entice you to act like that again," he muttered. "We have four more days here, after all." Watson shivered as he pulled Mycroft's arm around his waist and snuggled closer.

"Perhaps," he agreed. Mycroft smiled and leaned over Watson's shoulder to capture his lips once more.


	6. Chapter 6

Watson pushed open the door to 221B, bag in hand, nearly running into Mrs. Hudson who was struggling with her own luggage. He left his in the entry way briefly, helping her into her own room. Once he'd returned to the hall, however, he saw Holmes standing next to his suitcase, waiting. Holmes turned to look at him; eyes darting over him, pausing momentarily to focus on details Watson himself was unlikely aware of.

"What?" Watson asked dumbly. "What is it?" Holmes merely shook his head and stepped forward to pull him into a one-armed hug. "What have you done? Oh God, is it your wound? Is it infected?" He shook Holmes off and tugged at his shirt, intending to inspect the bandages.

"Honestly Watson, you and my brother must be the most stubborn men in existence. I am glad to see that the situation was resolved with a positive outcome, however. I was rather unsure." Watson's hands stilled and he looked up at his friend, wide-eyed. Holmes merely continued to smile at him. He glanced down at himself, wondering what had given them away so quickly. He cleared his throat nervously before Holmes' words sank in fully.

"You knew this would happen?" he asked softly.

"I had hoped."

"So," he took a deep, shaky breath, "It doesn't bother you? Rooming with a - a -" God, what should he call himself, now? Holmes' hand shot out and gripped his forearm painfully. He looked up to see Holmes glaring at him.

"You would do well to take care as to how you finish that sentence," he warned darkly.

Watson flushed. "Sorry," he muttered. "Can you tell me about the case now?" he asked, trying to change the subject. He pulled Holmes' shirt open and looked at the bandage. No blood leaking, he noted.

"Oh Watson," Holmes sighed, shaking his head. Watson looked at him, eyebrows raised. "There was no case," Holmes chuckled. His hands stilled where they had been about to peel back the bandage. He looked up at Holmes sharply.

"If there is no wound under here Holmes, I swear -" he began. Holmes chuckled.

"No, I was indeed assaulted. Never thought you'd be glad to hear that, did you? I may have neglected to mention, however, that the Miller-Davis case came to a close with very few complications."

"Miller-Davis!" Watson tugged the bandage off, looking over the stitches. "You're lucky this is all you came away with!" Watson glowered.

"I had police back up," Holmes waved away his mothering.

"Yes, and I know how much _faith_ you have in them," Watson said. He drew a fresh bandage from his bag and applied it gently.

Holmes stepped back and re-buttoned his shirt, Watson watching him curiously. Holmes turned toward the steps, but Watson stopped him with a hand on his arm. "How did you know?" he asked. Holmes smirked at him.

"Mycroft's handkerchief is in your left breast pocket, you aren't wearing your own socks and," he colored slightly, "you have a faint rope burn on your left wrist." He turned and began to climb the stairs. Watson pulled his sleeve back to examine the skin as he followed. So he did.

"Holmes, wouldn't it have just been easier to _tell_ us?"

"Easier than lying to you, trying to influence your course of action from across the country, and breaking into my brother's home to shoot a hole in his new hot water heater when it appeared things might go wrong? Perhaps," he said with a laugh. "But would you have listened?"

Watson stared at him, mouth agape. "You did _what_?"

"I'd appreciate if you didn't tell Mycroft that last bit," Holmes said, "I'll admit I hadn't predicted the damage would be so extensive. Miscalculation in the water pressure. Noted, for future reference."

"For the next time you have to shoot a water heater?"

"They _are_ becoming quite popular." Holmes led the way into their sitting room.

"How did you know shooting the water heater would help? How did you know Mycroft was going home at all?"

Holmes dropped into his chair, and Watson followed suit across from him. "Well, whatever had happened, the two of you were both likely planning flight; Mycroft is a creature of habit, he would of course head straight to the creature comforts of home. Slight flooding undid those plans. Failing that, it would at least have the effect of soothing some of my own pent-up frustrations over the situation. You don't want to know what I was prepared to do to your rooms should _you_ try and return prematurely again, my good man."

They sat in comfortable silence as Holmes lit his pipe. Watson smiled as he regarded his friend fondly. "You know, you got one detail wrong," he began.

Holmes arched a brow. "Oh?"

"It's not a _rope_burn," Watson began, "he used a -"

Holmes cut him off with a groan and covered his eyes with his hand. "Watson, _please._" Watson's laughter echoed down the hall, Holmes' joining in soon after.


End file.
